Prologue
~
My hands grip the corners of the dryer in the laundry room, my body pressed against it per his order. The sweat-soaked, white, cotton t-shirt, the only thing I’m wearing, barely covers the top of my bare buttocks. I tighten my fingers against the dryer to resist the urge to pull the t-shirt down.
My cheeks are hot with humiliation and my mind wonders what he must be thinking.
“That ass…” he once said with an acute longing in his voice, the only time he referred to any part of my body. And even so, he didn’t finish his sentence; just kept me guessing about what he meant.
My knees tremble, and my feet turn colder the longer I stand on the marble floor. The floral scent of the detergent makes me feel nauseous and dizzy but not as much as the fear of the unknown.
I dare tilt my head, only a little bit though, to see if he’s still behind me, although I know there’s no way in hell he’ll forgive my last move and leave me be.
He’s furious. He’s always been for most of the time I’ve known him, but this time, anger is fuming out of his ears. He’s murderous. Speechless. He’s not even breathing. I can’t foresee his next move. I’m not even sure how long has passed since he cornered me inside this claustrophobic tiny laundry room. Everything about his house is majestic, save for the laundry room where he has chosen to confront me. My bad luck has always been an active and loyal participant in my life.
One minute I’m loading the washer with dirty clothes, the next minute he’s shouting in my ear to take off my panties and bend over the dryer.
My mind is exhausted. I can’t hold in my feelings any longer. I want to turn around to look at him, come clean about everything, and apologize for the depraved games I’ve played with him.
I feel him move toward me, and my nipples harden against the soft fabric of my t-shirt. I want his hands all over me and his fingers exploring my sex, to turn this moment of humiliation into a wildfire of passion. I’ve been longing for him for so long; his mere presence has me drenched and aching for his touch.
But, he hasn’t touched me. Ever. He’s eye-fucked me countless times. He’s yelled, threatened, and even openly told me to get out of his life before, but he has never laid a finger on my body, never made a physical contact.
Cold air hits my thighs, but hot flames are spreading between my legs. My heartbeat pounds against my chest, my breathing short. The waiting is killing me.
He moves even closer to me and suddenly his hand threads into my hair and yanks me back with a painful force. I scream in panic and sorrow. The first physical contact between us has to be like this?
I tremble and fall back against the hard torso I’ve been dying to feel since the first time I saw him. The rough surface of his jeans brushes against my buttocks, the warmth of his body turning up the heat inside me to an unbearable degree.
Panicked and fearful, I glance up at him and see his blue eyes flash with anger as they glare down at me.
“Did you seriously think you had me figured out?” he whispers, each word radiating menace and revenge. “You think you know my weaknesses. You think I’ll fall for your sneaky little games sooner or later.” His hand pulls my hair more, forcing my head to press hard against his shoulder. “Don’t you?”
Unsure of how to answer him, I groan to convey my pain and fear. My tongue wouldn’t move anyway.
“Answer me!” he yells into my ear, and I wince in more pain. He’ll murder me and bury my corpse in the woods. That’s actually what he should do to fix the problem once and for all.
I scream again, hoping he’ll see my fear and let me go. Instead, he shoves me against the dryer, my hips hitting hard against the sharp edge of the machine. His hand lands on my back, between my shoulder blades, and presses me down to keep me in place. An unnecessary move, since I wouldn’t be able to run away anyway.
My nipples
~
My hands grip the corners of the dryer in the laundry room, my body pressed against it per his order. The sweat-soaked, white, cotton t-shirt, the only thing I’m wearing, barely covers the top of my bare buttocks. I tighten my fingers against the dryer to resist the urge to pull the t-shirt down.
My cheeks are hot with humiliation and my mind wonders what he must be thinking.
“That ass…” he once said with an acute longing in his voice, the only time he referred to any part of my body. And even so, he didn’t finish his sentence; just kept me guessing about what he meant.
My knees tremble, and my feet turn colder the longer I stand on the marble floor. The floral scent of the detergent makes me feel nauseous and dizzy but not as much as the fear of the unknown.
I dare tilt my head, only a little bit though, to see if he’s still behind me, although I know there’s no way in hell he’ll forgive my last move and leave me be.
He’s furious. He’s always been for most of the time I’ve known him, but this time, anger is fuming out of his ears. He’s murderous. Speechless. He’s not even breathing. I can’t foresee his next move. I’m not even sure how long has passed since he cornered me inside this claustrophobic tiny laundry room. Everything about his house is majestic, save for the laundry room where he has chosen to confront me. My bad luck has always been an active and loyal participant in my life.
One minute I’m loading the washer with dirty clothes, the next minute he’s shouting in my ear to take off my panties and bend over the dryer.
My mind is exhausted. I can’t hold in my feelings any longer. I want to turn around to look at him, come clean about everything, and apologize for the depraved games I’ve played with him.
I feel him move toward me, and my nipples harden against the soft fabric of my t-shirt. I want his hands all over me and his fingers exploring my sex, to turn this moment of humiliation into a wildfire of passion. I’ve been longing for him for so long; his mere presence has me drenched and aching for his touch.
But, he hasn’t touched me. Ever. He’s eye-fucked me countless times. He’s yelled, threatened, and even openly told me to get out of his life before, but he has never laid a finger on my body, never made a physical contact.
Cold air hits my thighs, but hot flames are spreading between my legs. My heartbeat pounds against my chest, my breathing short. The waiting is killing me.
He moves even closer to me and suddenly his hand threads into my hair and yanks me back with a painful force. I scream in panic and sorrow. The first physical contact between us has to be like this?
I tremble and fall back against the hard torso I’ve been dying to feel since the first time I saw him. The rough surface of his jeans brushes against my buttocks, the warmth of his body turning up the heat inside me to an unbearable degree.
Panicked and fearful, I glance up at him and see his blue eyes flash with anger as they glare down at me.
“Did you seriously think you had me figured out?” he whispers, each word radiating menace and revenge. “You think you know my weaknesses. You think I’ll fall for your sneaky little games sooner or later.” His hand pulls my hair more, forcing my head to press hard against his shoulder. “Don’t you?”
Unsure of how to answer him, I groan to convey my pain and fear. My tongue wouldn’t move anyway.
“Answer me!” he yells into my ear, and I wince in more pain. He’ll murder me and bury my corpse in the woods. That’s actually what he should do to fix the problem once and for all.
I scream again, hoping he’ll see my fear and let me go. Instead, he shoves me against the dryer, my hips hitting hard against the sharp edge of the machine. His hand lands on my back, between my shoulder blades, and presses me down to keep me in place. An unnecessary move, since I wouldn’t be able to run away anyway.
My nipples
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